White Crow Gwendolyn Fitzpatrick
The ebony corvids descended from the royal blue heavens. They chose their perch wisely, re- turning to it after their moonlight festivities. Dozens of gleaming gray eyes twinkle from the shadows, hidden behind the hooked branches of the claw marked tree. The dark was like a blanket of protection for the murder whom danced and sang in its shade, knowing in their souls that their volume and glee would go unnoticed by the hooked talons of predators whose sharp eyes were hindered by the smoke of the night. The military uniformity of the sharp-eyed corvids was broken by a white crow: an anomaly. Since hatching, the snow-colored crow had been alienated and hated by even the runtiest of its siblings. The white crow cannot help it, but yet the murder needed to pin the festering hatred and fear on some- one. Night after night, the glassy rose-colored optics of the corvid tipped up towards the sky, watching the murder dance and sing its moonlight tune in the safety of the twilight shroud. That beautiful twinkling melody of harmonious, carefree bliss became an agonizing taunt—a reminder of what the anomalous bird could not have. If they were to join the others, it would be suicide. The shroud cannot extend its reassurance to the white crow. So night after night, the agonizing crawl of time staggers forward. Again, the obsidian angels sing their jubilant song, the eyesore looking on in yearning. The days muddle into a timeless blob of existence, and the life the white crow lived became meaningless… Then, the moon rose. The round opal of the full moon illuminated the curved backs of the black birds. The corvids rose to their twilight waltz across the sprawl of the sky. Suddenly, and without warning, the angelic ivory crow rose into the stars. Its song rattled the sky like a harmonious roar of triumph, pale wings spread wide against the contrast of black. The white crow did not fear being seen. The white crow had nothing to hide. The white crow flew higher and higher until its wings scraped the rolling clouds of a winter night. It let out that battle cry, that uplifting sound of what was surely a vic- tory. Then, it was over. Hooked talons dug into the pristine chest of the white crow, and its spine broke in the claws of the hawk. All of that power and life drained from the corvid, its white feathers falling to the ground like the sunken petals of a sad flower wilting in the breeze of a cold winter’s night. Life moves on, the crows continue their dance of happiness across the night sky, the world con- tinues as if the white crow never existed. But that doesn’t matter. A white crow dies fast and dies alone. But a white crow dies free.
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